


Note to Self

by NorroenDyrd



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Cookies, Diary/Journal, Dorks in Love, F/F, I Love You, Lesbian Sex, Mild Smut, POV Lesbian Character, Rite of Tranquility, Sera Being Sera, Tranquil Inquisitor, Trespasser, Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-29 19:59:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10142822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: Inquisitor Temperance Trevelyan was Tranquil before the Conclave, her senses having reawakened when she touched Fen'Harel's orb. And now that her Mark has become unstable and she suspects she might lose her arm, and with it her restored connection to the Fade, she leaves a note to herself with a reminder of the reason why she will need to ask Cassandra for a cure for Tranquility. Sera.





	

Hey, me. You had better be me, because this is not meant for anybody else's eyes. If you are not me, then be a good friend and pass this on to me so I can read the things I need to hear from myself.  
  
Yes, even if it's you who's reading this, Sweetkiss. Redbird. Arrowdance. Fuzzhead. Buttercup. See, I am still using all the names my gang and I have come up with for you. Please let this be a sign that, as I write this, I still care for you. Even with my link to what you'd call 'weird Fade-shite', I don't really have it in me to dream up that awful scene when you react to... to what will soon happen. You will be angry, I expect, and scared, like you were in that charming little home of the Nightmare Demon. You will want to shoot arrows at the fancy Orlesian furniture, sharp chips of wood hurtling everywhere like splashes of water (except they might cost you an eye). You will want to punch things, too, with a tight, bloodied fist, ignoring the burning feeling in your split, crackling skin; and you may even want to punch me, shake me, grab me by the front of my uniform, leaping in front of me in an outraged blur of plaid weave, almost two heads shorter than my awkward, gangly self. But please try to hold your breath a little, my little Redbird; please slow down for a moment. Just pass this on to me, and make sure I read this, and understand every word. And then it will be all right. I promise.  
  
I am your wifey, your family; and families stick by each other through thick and thin. Things may be thin right now - but thick will still come. Thick, hearty laughter, from the very-very bottom of your chest; thick, slurry voices, because Andraste's tits you know how to exhaust me and make me sing and whine and purr. And thick, thick layers of flower petals everywhere, a silky fragrant carpet under our feet, and on the chair and on the bed and in our plates - because there can never be enough flowers, can there?  
  
I promise you, Buttercup. Fuzzhead. Sweetkiss. I promise you I will feel again. Now hand me this note, because what follows is meant for me.  
  
So. Having gotten to this part, I am going to assume that the person staring at these lines, eyes all blank and indifferent, is me. The new me... And the old me, too, the me that used to exist before I got branded with the Mark that is now eating away at me. Even though I put on a brave face as I write, Maker's hairy pecs, the pain if terrible. Like sizzling acid coursing from my palm all the way up my arm and neck. Vivienne and Dorian give each other this long, knowing look every time this happens with them around, and I little short of drop to my knees at their feet, so that they have to pull me up, as I shiver and whimper and gasp for breath. They do not say anything out loud, but I know for certain by now what news they will be soon delivering. If this wild wisp of Fade magic is to be stopped from killing me, my whole limb will have to go. And with it, my link to dreams and feeling and all those wonderful, confusing, exhilarating things I've remembered over the past three years. With the Anchor and my arm cut off, I will revert to being Tranquil.  
  
So I am writing this note to self now, as something to give heed to once this already happens. Once the new me, the future me and the reborn past me, is nothing but an empty person-shaped shell, stumbling through a world of dull colours and boringly straight lines like a talking, thinking machine, something the dwarves would find handy to have around.  
  
Well, listen up, Future Me: you are no bloody dwarf toy (no offence Varric). And you are gonna march up to Cassandra, pin her against the nearest hard vertical surface, and demand that she let you volunteer for that cure the Seekers have been so hush-hush about. Yes, one of the few people to go through the spirit-touching ritual, or whatever it is, ended up as a jumpy, unstable maniac - but this has to be because he spent many decades like this, and simply forgot what it was like to have emotions. But I am much younger; in all, I haven't been Tranquil all that long. And I sure as the Void won't let myself forget.  
  
Don't you forget, Future Me, that food is not just fuel for your body that you load into your gob like a shovelful of coal into a furnace. It is breaking a cookie in half with a snap, and cooing and flushing when her hands travel over you, brushing off the crumbs and not forgetting to give you a gentle squeeze. It is feeling your whole self light up, like a candle has been lit in your chest when, still hungry after all these years of digging in the gutter, she happily tucks into the meal you've cooked for her, and sings through a mouthful of potato mash, 'Thanfs fo muff, Taffwinks!'. It is digging your fingers deep into the creamy crater of a pie that she just shoved at you, drawing a curling moustache on the imprint of your face, and cozying up in your own inner warmth as she snorts out a giggle at your, 'Hey look, I'm Dorian!'.  
  
Don't you forget that getting struck down in battle is not just having your tissues ripped up by an arrow or a blade that came at you at a given speed, and losing a precisely calculated such and such amount of blood. It is laying down on your bedroll, bleating eyes squinting at the blazing triangle of sunlight at the entrance to your tent, and curiously fingering the bandage one of your companions has fixed up for you - until the triangle expands, blinding you, and with the sudden flood of the sun's molten gold stream, she comes rushing in, bony arms stretched forward, and pounces down on you, ignoring Cassandra's urgent plea in the background to 'Stop this insanity lest the Inquisitor's wound opens again!' - and then cups your face in her hands and gives you a slight shake, saying, 'Don't you friggin' ever do that again, Tadwinks! Want you to live, thanks!'. It is responding to her with a faint 'Oomph!' (because that pounce did turn out rather painful), and then pulling yourself up and giving her a hug, almost believing for a moment that the feeling of her hair bristling under your fingertips will somehow work to fix you better than all of your fellow mages' healing spells.  
  
Don't you forget that, when there is this powerful kick, which sends stars floating before your eyes, as your tender parts are being touched - that it is not just your body responding to... how do those books call it... Stimulants. It is her head on the pillow, in a halo of messy hair, lips parted to let out a screaming guffaw, before you silence her with another kiss... And before you lean down, one hand tenderly kneading the freckle-sprinkled cream of her breasts while the other searches lower, you notice how beautiful she is. How happy and perfect and precious, like you have caught a warm spring sun beam into your arms. Don't you forget these words, Future Me. Don't you forget that 'happiness' and 'beauty' are not just inky squiggles on a sheet of paper. Not when you are talking about her.  
  
These words may ring hollow to you now - but it only seems that way. They are important. To both of us. Her touch is important, and her laughter and her love. Too important to let it fall away into this benumbing greyness that will try to swallow you up when the Anchor no longer holds you in place.  
  
You have a wife, Future Me. You have wife that loves you, and that you love. And for her sake, you will be getting a cure. You will be coming back to her.


End file.
